I'll Take It Black
by CJbean
Summary: They have something bittersweet and reminiscent of love, they have silence and gunshots and imperfection, and they will never need anything more. No cream, no sugar, thank you. This is the life I've chosen, so I'll take my coffee black. My attempt at the Royai 100 Themes.
1. Chapter 1

He was made to serve.

She remembered the first time she saw him in uniform. He had looked awkward and out of place, but his voice rang in her head-

_ "I'll do great things, Riza!"_

-and she believed he would, and so she believed that stiff blue wool would do great things too.

Time passed, and then came Ishval, and blue wool was a burden that marked him as a killer.

_"Why are soldiers, who are meant to protect people, killing them instead?"_

He didn't know. There were so many things he didn't know, so many cruelties he was too naive to expect, and so, _so_ much death. But one thing was certain...

This was not what it means to serve.

And this was not what he was meant to do.

It wasn't. And after it was all over, and he was still alive, and the scorched desert sands only visited at night, he knew what was.

Roy Mustang was going to be Fuhrer. Some might call it a lofty goal, but with a little help-

_"I'll follow you into hell if you ask me to,"_

With a little help and a glimpse of her smile, and his firm resolution that one day, she would live in the world that they'd dreamed up together, a world where everyone could live in peace, he _can_ accomplish his goals.

And he did.

"So...you won,"

"No, Hawkeye," He grabs her by the shoulders and pulls her against his chest, wraps his arms around her and hugs her as tightly as he can. At first she is stiff with surprise, but then lets her body relax and melt into his embrace.

"_We_ won."

He rests his chin on her shoulder, and smiles, because it was all worth it in the end, because it wasn't truly the end at all, it was a new beginning.

He finally releases her from his embrace, and she steps back and smiles with all her teeth and salutes him with a energetic happiness that is bursting at the seams.

As she watches him walk away, tall and proud, through the empty halls of Central Headquarters, she remembers the awkward boyish cadet he used to be, and marvels at how he has grown into his stiff blue uniform, at the man he has become.

And she thinks to herself...

** He was made to serve.**

**AN: I'm so excited for this! The fans who came up with the themes are geniuses. I cant say this first one is my best writing, but I'm about to post the second one after this, and ****_that _****I'm proud of.**


	2. 002 Gunshot

**I totally own FMA!**

**Riza:*points gun at me* **

**Eek! Ok, Ok, all rights go to Hiromu Arakawa!**

She was made to shoot.

There was something flawlessly, undoubtedly right about the way her hand fit with her gun, like two pieces of a puzzle. The weapon was not a separate object at all, it was merely an extension of herself. She knew deep inside her soul that it was a part of her being that she could never let go. It had been, for years-

_ "Okay, now keep your arms steady, and hold it more...like this," He kneeled down next to her and cupped his hands over hers, moving her fingers into the proper position. His touch was tingly as if charged with static electricity, and his breath was warm and wet on the back of her neck, which made her heart jump into her throat. Why, she didn't know._

_ "Good," he muttered. "Now keep your eye on the center of the target and...shoot!"_

Shot after shot, every bullet piercing the white silhouette at the same exact point as its predecessor-right through the middle of the head. Here, in the shooting range, there was no death, only accuracy, no guilt, only triumph.

One finger slowly curled around the trigger, her shoulders tensed, her eyes sharpened, she pulled the trigger back-

_ and she went flying back into the dirt. The rifle followed soon after, hitting her hard in the gut and knocking the breath out of her lungs._

_ "...I guess I should have warned you about the recoil,"_

Should have warned her, should have warned her that a life with him would only result in staining her hands with blood, in staining her chest with blood.

** Gunshots ring through the air, but is he only hearing things?**

_ The old hunting rifle was surprisingly warm in her hands. Her finger tensed on the trigger, and suddenly every fiber of her being felt..._alive._ She was abruptly aware of each blade of grass that caressed her bare, skinny legs, of her heartbeat, fast and furious in her ears; it seemed to make the very ground shake._

_ Then she pulled back the trigger._

_ She was ready for the recoil this time. She looked up..._

**_ -and saw the body collapse, imagined those fierce crimson eyes turning to ruby glass-_**

_ And saw a small round hole in the wooden target, far from the middle, oh but just hitting the target was an achievement in itself, heard Mr. Mustang let out a boyish whoop of delight-_

And felt the awed stares of her fellow soldiers, but didn't turn around, just smiled at the white silhouette and at the power she wielded in her hands.

A power she should have been afraid of (especially after seeing all those ruby glass eyes), that she should resent, but she couldn't. Shooting was a drug, and she was a hopeless addict.

"Can you tell me for certain that when you defeat an enemy, there isn't the slightest moment where you say, "I got him! Great!" take pride in your own skills, and feel a sense of accomplishment?"

_ No I can't, because you're right; I_ am_ proud. I'm proud that I am strong enough to kill and I both love and hate myself for it._

"Do you ever see it as a burden, Lieutenant?"

_Yes, yes, all the time, because guns are for protecting him, and protecting him is a burden, but it's a burden that I'm willing to carry, and that I will never lay down._

She was made to protect. She was made to shoot.

_ Which made it so ironic, she thought, as she shoved her body in front of him; the man who had taught her how to hold a gun, who had given her a reason not to put it down._

She was made to shoot. She was made to be shot.

** A single gunshot, sharp and clear, rings through the air, and they both know it must be real.**

"LIEUTENANT!"

**AN: The first theme was Military Personnel by the way. I forgot to change the chapter title. Themes # 3 and 4 are ready to go, but I'm going to wait to see if I get any reviews before I post them. So review or I'll tell Ed you called him short! MWAHAHAHA!**


	3. 003 Battlefield

**AN: Ok so I lied about waiting until I got more reviews. But I really wanted to post, so...**

**Disclaimer: FMA belongs to the all-powerful Hiromu Arakawa, and the line "love is our resistance" belongs to Muse. Go give the song "Resistance" a listen. The lyrics represent Roy and Riza's relationship really well.**

**Our entire life...is a war.**

This war is not as simple as one side fighting against another, but multiple armies, all caught up in one huge conflict. An endless battle that will only cease when the beating of our hearts comes to a stop as well. We fight against monsters and men alike, enemies and friends, strangers and kin, others as well as ourselves. We fight for freedom, power, and the petty pleasure of winning in itself, but most of all, we fight to live.

Not just to survive, but to carry out our time here on earth by the path we choose. Not the path most reasonable based on the circumstances you were born in, nor the one that is easiest or safest to travel, nor the one that others pressure you to choose, but the one that _you_ make for yourself.

That is what it means to live. And that is why, side by side, we fight this war.

**And everything around us...is a battlefield.**

Just look back at all the places we have been. Out of all of these places, is there a single one in which we did not struggle, or feel pain, or fight to live? I thought not. Because you see, the war we fight is always moving, always changing, as we move and change ourselves. And no matter where we go, the battle comes with us. We have suffered too much at this point in our lives to think that we can run away from our problems. We cannot afford the luxury of naivety. This fight will follow us over seas, chase us around the globe if it has to , and in its wake, there lie remnants of our struggle. The footprints we leave stain the ground crimson. The land we walk is forever scarred. The world that we fight for...is a battlefield.

**But we have not completely succumbed to this harsh way of life. Every day, without even realizing it, you and I are fighting back against this merciless world we live in.**

You may not know this, but every time you smile at me, and I smile back, every time our fingers "accidentally" brush against each other, every time tender words break free from your lips and softness forces itself into your eyes, that is a small act of rebellion.

Every time our eyes scan the room, frantically searching until our gazes finally collide, and in a split second we have spoken volumes, without saying a word, that secret communication is a small act of treason, not against our country but against the world.

And all those brief, subtle looks and silent I-love-you's, things that seem so perfectly innocent, they are not. Every one of those bittersweet moments adds up to something more, something different. A loud, fiery revolution of overwhelming power. A secret weapon, a shield against all the hatred. Hopes for love and peace that rival the reality of chaos and blood. This is what gives us the upper hand.

_Our life is a war._

_Our world is a battlefield_.

**_And love...is our resistance!_**

**AN: I cant believe I haven't said this yet, but thank you, thank you, thank you to my wonderful friend, StarrySky0103. She encouraged(aka forcedXD)me to get an account, and she's really supportive of my writing. Take the time to check out her work, especially if you like Prince of Tennis!**


	4. 004 Grave

**AN: Guys, I'm going back to school ****_tomorrow! _****My days of practically living at my friend's house, sleeping ridiculously late, and watching episode after episode of Hetalia are over. Oh well, at least I have Royai to cheer me up...or in the case of this particular theme, make me incredibly depressed. Enjoy!**

_**004. Grave**_

Roy Mustang was fed up with funerals.

He was fed up with girls in black.

_ "Is it alright to believe in a world where everyone can live in peace?"_

But what he really couldn't stand was what he saw when all the black was stripped away.

_ "Can I entrust my back to you, Mr. Mustang?"_

He was fed up with tears.

_ "Mommy, why are the men putting dirt on daddy?"_

_ "They're burying him, dear,"_

_ "I don't want them to! Don't! Don't bury daddy!"_

_ "Elysia!"_

But the grief was never as bad as the initial terror.

_ "HAWKEYE-SENSEI!"_

_ "Maes?...Maes?..hello?!...Maes can you hear me?! Pick up the phone! MAES!"_

He was fed up with the damn weather.

_ "Except...it's a terrible day for rain,"_

_ "...but sir, it's not raining,"_

But what really bothered him was how utterly _useless_ it-along with everything else-made him feel.

_ "Yes...it is."_

In short, Roy Mustang hated funerals. He hated death, and most of all, he hated graves. To Roy, graves seemed painfully meaningless. As if a stupid piece of rock could fix anything. As if a couple words engraved in a tombstone could sum up an _entire human life._ As if there was any point to burying his loved ones if they didn't let him jump into the earth as well. As if any of it was equivalent exchange. It wasn't! It wasn't equivalent, it wasn't fair! It was death, and it was random and abrupt and it hurt so, _so_ bad, especially if you were still alive-why the _hell _was he still alive when they were all-

"Colonel, are you alright?"

Roy turns around and there she is, golden-haired and brown-eyed, her soft pink lips pressed together in a concerned frown, and he feels the fire inside him cool down.

"Yeah," he replies, turning his back to her again. "It's just a terrible day for rain,"

"But sir..."

The sky is all gold melting into orange which oozes into warm pinks, and there's not a cloud to be-

"This isn't Hughes' funeral."

He looks over his shoulder but Riza is gone.

He is alone.

And he is afraid to look down at the tombstone. But of course he does anyway.

He reads the name engraved there and then his vision blurs and everything is a wet blob of gray.

_Damn this rain._


	5. 005 Heiki (weapon) & Heiki (fine)

**AN: Ok so I just absolutely detest the original 5th theme entry that I posted, an I knew it would drive me nuts if I left it up on here, so I'm replacing it. This is very short, yes, but hopefully of better quality the the previous one. My sincerest apologies to anyone who read it and actually enjoyed it, but I thought it was super bad and not at all fit to represent my most favorite butt-kicking duo ever. I own neither Fullmetal Alchemist nor the ability to come up with witty disclaimers. Enjoy :)  
**

005. Heiki (weapon) & Heiki (fine)

He is a weapon. And in the eyes of the military, a useless one. Old, overused, unneeded. His parts have been slowly devoured by rust, his once gleaming, seamless surface worn down, scratched and nicked from use, marked by the scars of time that no one cares to cover up.

He was their most valuable asset, once, when their were things to be done, people to get rid of. Yes, that is the purpose of Roy Mustang, a broom, the special little tool they use when they need to tidy up their messes. And he did his job well; with a few clicks of his fingers, Mustang could take care of anything and anyone that might stand in the way of the Fuhrer. He was the perfect cleaner-upper, the ideal last resort.

But that was not who he was supposed to be. In Roy's eyes, he is the valiant Flame Alchemist, future Fuhrer of Amestris, the long-awaited savior, who will fix all the nation's problems and bring peace and prosperity to its people!

Only, that's _not_ who he is. At least, it's not what the military has made him into. And every angry face, every biting voice whispering_, "monster!" _reminds the Colonel that the confident stride he walks with through the streets of Central is simply an act, that he is far from becoming the hero he promised himself he would be. It reminds him that the face he sees in the mirror each day is not that of a man, but of a monster. He gave up his proud position as a person long ago, when he saw the first pair of scarlet eyes go dull, when the first building collapsed in a fiery inferno.

And now, he is nothing but an object, an old weapon shoved away in the dusty storage closet that is his office, regardless of what his desk plague reads, and that is the cold, unfeeling truth.

But Riza Hawkeye is not afraid to challenge the truth.

She knows the Flame Alchemist better than anyone; she's seen the man behind the mask. And to her, he is not a weapon waiting to be used, a killing machine, a gun at the ready. Neither, is he a flawless hero, a savior to be praised. No, when all is said and done, when all the layers are stripped away, she sees something much simpler. To her, Roy Mustang is a person, with strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears, successes and failures, good at his best and bad at his worst, flawed, and perfect, and ugly, and beautiful, and all the strange and wonderful things that people are.

In her eyes, he is human.


End file.
